


Unhinged

by Makalaure



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Beleriand, Character Study, Drama, Gen, mature themes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-18
Updated: 2016-09-18
Packaged: 2018-08-15 16:08:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 973
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8063002
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Makalaure/pseuds/Makalaure
Summary: "I'm fine," I say, bewildered. A pause. "It hurts."





	

This is a WIP I wrote a couple of years back. I have no intention of working on it further, but feel I should put it up, anyway.

**Unhinged**

I hold out my palms, and my nephew leans forward and narrows his eyes. "It was there," he says, "in your right hand." He scowls at me, and I ruffle his hair, which is stringy with oil and dirt. Goodness knows how long it has been since he's washed it. All the filth of the construction work in Mithrim does not help. There is dust everywhere, inside our shelters and out, settling like a flimsy blanket over the floor and the furniture, collecting between our toes and beneath our fingernails. I wouldn't be surprised if it's in my ears, too, obstructing my hearing, crawling through cavities into my brain.  
  
Tyelperinquar curls his fist and shrills, "You _tricked_ me," and I quickly force a smile.  
  
"Makalaurë!" comes a sharp voice, and I look to my left to see Curufinwë striding towards us, clad in his blotchy smith's apron and sturdy boots. The line of his jaw is hard. Behind him, the evening sky is a sea of fire. Tyelperinquar holds his breath, and two spots of colour appear on his cheeks. When he reaches us, Curvo grasps his son's shoulder, then turns to me. "You can leave the rearing of my child to me and my wife. Do you not have to meet with our architects?"  
  
"That is in half an hour," I say. "But you are right; I should leave now." I briefly stroke Tyelpo's chin – he gives me a somewhat wistful look in return – then head towards the still-unfinished cluster of buildings that serve as our quarters. Most of our people are living in tents, sleeping on the hard ground, eating only what they can get off the land. It is my responsibility to give them a better life, to help turn this makeshift village into a permanent fortress that will stand strong against foreign forces.  
  
Yes, that is what matters: the people.  
  
I enter the foyer and balk. Is my chamber in the right or the left wing? Just as a decide that it is in the right, I see a small girl sitting on a stool by a window, tuning a lute with her forehead creased and her tongue sticking out, and I stifle a smile. At length she takes a breath and plucks a string, and the sweet sound echoes in the chamber. She continues to play, and, like with all music, I cannot help but listen. I've been that way since childhood; it is a habit I cannot get rid of.  
  
When she finishes, I turn around to tell Maitimo she reminds me of him when he reads, just to get an indignant reaction from him, but he is not there, and I face an empty wall.  
  
_I forgot_ , I think, feeling my head grow strangely light. Pinching the space between my brows, I advance to the right wing. Tall glassless windows pass by, one after the other, and the long grey hallway is striped with sunlight. I walk faster. My heart pounds against my ribs, and my breath seems loud, and somehow separate from myself.  
  
At the winding staircase at the end of the corridor, I stop and draw deep breaths. I vaguely register the sounds of hammering and shouting and scattered singing from outside. _I am the king regent_ , I tell myself firmly, and clench my fists. _I am a pillar of strength. I am..._

***  
  
This winter is a grim one. There is not much to eat. The children all have dark circles beneath their eyes, and their skin has taken on a greyish hue. At least most of the construction is finished, so everyone is sheltered from the cold.  
  
I wrap my blanket more firmly about myself and scuttle closer to the hearth. The fire chases away the worst of the cold.  
  
I smile a little. I did something right. Father would consider it a bare minimum.

My vision is growing hazy. I blink hard and wave a hand before my eyes, and there's Maitimo, in the flames. He grins at me, showing his teeth, and there is a glint in his eyes. I smile back uncertainly. Hello, and how do you do?  
  
I am on my knees and there is a crowd around me and my right hand is being plunged in a mug of ice water. Everyone is chattering and shuffling their feet and making concerned noises that burrow beneath my skin and make my flesh tingle unpleasantly. I want the people to go away. Curufin kneels before me, an odd expression on his face. "Are you all right?" he says. "Makalaurë?"

"I'm fine," I say, bewildered. A pause. "It hurts."  
  
"Of course it hurts! You put your hand in the fire, you empty-headed lunatic."  
  
I frown. "No, I didn't." Why does he patronise me? Does he not realise I'm working myself half to death so that our people can stay alive? I swat his hand away when it reaches for my shoulder, and try to stand up. My head feels light. I stumble, and then look down. Patches of my right hand are red and raw and blistered. I stare at it.  
  
The room has gone silent as the bottom of the ocean. I feel the formidable weight of my people's eyes on me. As if from a distance I hear a voice, and realise it is mine: "Everyone, back to your duties."  
  
No one moves. Weariness tugs at my body. I find myself growing irate. Why are they all still as rocks? Do they not have things to do other than gape at me? "Go," I say, and then clear my throat to banish the hoarseness from my voice. "I command you."


End file.
